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Yvor Winters

Yvor Winters

Alone

I, one who never speaks,
Listened days in summer trees,
Each day a rustling leaf.
 
Then, in time, my unbelief
Grew like my running—
My own eyes did not exist,
When I struck I never missed.
 
Noon, felt and far away—
My brain is a thousand bees.

#AmericanWriters

Autres oeuvres par Yvor Winters...
To the Holy Spirit

Immeasurable haze: The desert valley spreads Up golden river-beds As if in other days. Trees rise and thin away,
 1
A Song in Passing

Where am I now? And what Am I to say portends? Death is but death, and not The most obtuse of ends. No matter how one leans
An October Nocturne

The night was faint and sheer; Immobile, road and dune. Then, for a moment, clear, A plane moved past the moon. O spirit cool and frail,
By the Road to the Air Base

The calloused grass lies hard Against the cracking plain: Life is a grayish stain; The salt-marsh hems my yard. Dry dikes rise hill on hill;
Two Songs of Advent

On the desert, between pale mounta… Far whispers creeping through an a… Coyote, on delicate mocking feet, Hovers down the canyon, among the… His voice running wild in the wind…
The Precision

God spoke once in the dark: dead s… in the dead silence. I turned in my sleep.       I slept and sank away. Then breath by breath I rose
Moonrise

The branches, jointed, pointing up and out, shine out like brass. Upon the heavy
The Marriage

Incarnate for our marriage you app… Flesh living in the spirit and end… By minor graces and slow, sensual… Through every nerve we made our sp… We fed our minds on every mortal t…
 1
At the San Francisco Airport

This is the terminal: the light Gives perfect vision, false and ha… The metal glitters, deep and brigh… Great planes are waiting in the ya… They are already in the night.
To a Young Writer

Achilles Holt, Stanford, 1930 Here for a few short years Strengthen affections; meet, Later, the dull arrears Of age, and be discreet.
Song

Where I walk out to meet you on the cloth of burning fields the goldfinches
On a View of Pasadena From the Hills

From the high terrace porch I wat… No light appears, though dark has… Sunk from the cold and monstrous s… Lie naked but not light. The dark… Down the remoter gulleys; pooled,…
To Emily Dickinson

Dear Emily, my tears would burn y… But for the fire-dry line that mak… Burning my eyes, my fingers, while… Singly the words that crease my he… If I could make some tortured pil…
Dark Spring

My mother Foresaw deaths And walked among Chrysanthemums, Winecolored,
On Teaching the Young

The young are quick of speech. Grown middle-aged, I teach Corrosion and distrust, Exacting what I must. A poem is what stands



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